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It was the beginning of a misadventure that began one day several years ago. I was sitting in my editor's chair at the Tolucan on the fringe of Beautiful Downtown Burbank, minding my own business of deadlines when the phone rang. It was Dr. Harry "Machiaborgia" Zelig, a family practice physician with an unusual practice even for those days, who sounded like a man who was truly dedicated to healing the entire person while making his practice a family affair. It sounded intriguing, and his office, in a converted one-story apartment building, and was too conveniently located about six block west of my office. Naturally, his call was to tout his oh so friendly family practice, and since the Tolucan was a local weekly and he was a local doc, he though fer sure I be interested in his story. Oh, was he right! He sent me a press release and after answering several of my questions, I printed his story detailing the facts that his wife, a registered nurse, worked with him, and their infant daughter also helped out in the office sitting on her mommy's lap and randomly punching computer keys when she wasn't in her crib crying. In my life, I never met an unhappier, crabbier, more cantankerous baby girl. That should have been the first hint that all was not right with the Zelig family enterprise. Zelig was affable enough and seemed to know what he was doing...doctoring wise, so he became my doctor, being that I suffered from brain-splitting migraines and a stubbornly painful back. Dr. "Machiborgia" Zelig, said he could help with the migraines. He lied. He couldn't and didn't help with either of my complaints. For my breaking back he sent me next door to his best buddy Dr. Frankengali. [I really have forgotten his real name, which is probably just a well, or I'd be tempted to unwisely use it.] If you ever walk into a chiropractor's office and he has a skeleton in his waiting room. Run! Run like hell for the nearest exit. A skeleton in a back office is one thing. But a skeleton in the waiting room? Just to be clear, I love skeletons. Always wanted one of my own to study and as a conversation piece. The closest I ever got was buying a glow-in-the-dark plastic version for Hallowe'en and a skeleton key chain. But not in a doctor's waiting room! That freaked me out...just a little. Yeah I know, what better place for a skeleton than a chiropractor's office, but still... Having never been to a chiropractor, I didn't know what to expect in the way of an exam. When asked to strip down to my bikini and bra and put on a gown, I thought that was S.O.P. for a chiropractic exam. Not! Okay, that done...in walks Dr. Frankengali. A normal person was not who introduced himself to me, but a caricature of Svengali complete with jet black hair slicked back to show his widow's peak, and face masked with a matching mustache and Van Dyke that not even the dim light in the room could hide. Dim lighting, another clue to the mysterious workings of this weird man. He sat down on a stool facing me with his knees so close they almost touched mine. The questionnaire I filled out didn't seem to be enough for him and he began asking me a new series of questions. Sven's questions began innocently enough, and slowly advanced into the more personal...the down right none of your business...to deeply personal questions about my sex life.
Sandy Sand began her writing career while raising three children and doing public relations work for Women's American ORT (Organization for Rehabilitation through Training). That led to a job as a reporter for the San Fernando Valley Chronicle, a weekly publication in Canoga Park, California. In conjunction with the Chronicle, she broadcast a tri-weekly, ten minuted newscast for KGOE AM. Following the closure of the Chronicle, Sand became the editor of the Tolucan Times and Canyon Crier newspapers in Burbank. She is currently a guest columnist for the Los Angeles Daily News and contributor to ronkayela.com
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